


Painted Faces on Parade

by entropynchaos (katonahottinroof)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Partnership, The Arrangement, dancing as a metaphor for life and chaos, quiet and gentle friendship, slow and quiet fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katonahottinroof/pseuds/entropynchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley and Aziraphale - temptation and champagne at a masquerade ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted Faces on Parade

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'The Phantom of the Opera' musical, of course, by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Charles Hart.
> 
> No spoilers for the book 'Good Omens'.
> 
> The characters are not mine; I only borrow what I love, and will return them when done.
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley are the property of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, gods among men.

A masquerade. In Venice, as everyone knows all the best masquerades are.

And angel and a demon standing close together, isolated at the edge of the glittering, dancing throng.

A languid wave of a hand… and a married man is led off by a young, giggling someone who is most emphatically _not_ his wife.

“Really my dear,” the angel murmurs reprovingly. A casual glance, and a jewelled necklace is returned smoothly to its owner’s neck before its disappearance can be missed as the would-be thief suffers from a sudden attack of conscience.

The demon snickers, reaches to grab two flutes of champagne from a passing server and turns back to his companion. “Do allow me to _tempt_ you to a drink,” he purrs, gracefully handing off one of the flutes off to the angel, to be rewarded with an absentminded smile. The demon’s yellow eyes glint behind what one might assume, given the current surroundings, was a mask. A very realistic mask, almost reptilian in appearance. What might be, if the idea weren’t completely impossible, a forked tongue flickers to moisten parted lips. His attention leaves his companion, gaze landing on a passing couple and sharpening as his eyes follow their crossing of the floor.

“Falling behind on the quota, old chap?” the angel asks, honest curiosity and not a little sly humour colouring his words.

Yellow eyes brighten a bit, for the slightest moment – attention snapped back with vicious speed as the demon glares balefully at the angel. “Of courssse not,” he lies through pointed teeth.

The angel smiles calmly, benevolently, and lays a hand on the demon’s arm in apology and reconciliation. The two of them stare out at the crowd, at the bend and sway and twirl of human existence…

There’s lust in the air tonight.

The angel tilts his head a little watching over the dancers, the servers, the musicians with a kind, fatherly air. “You know,” he begins, slowly, eyes on the crowd, “convincing an angel to join a demon in a waltz…” he settles a little closer to the demon, hand tightening briefly where he holds the demon’s arm before he lets go, “and in such a… _debauched_ environment as this…”

The demon shoots his companion a sideways glance and the angel looks away demurely, a slight smile curving the corners of his mouth. “Just to keep up the quota…” the demon says.

“Well, Crowley my dear, I might not be an archangel, but surely it would count for something? The attempt, anyway, because I would, naturally, accept only in order to spare those poor souls your demonic attentions might otherwise fall on, and not out of any… desire on my own part.”

Crowley pauses, parsing the angel’s words and sifting through all possibilities of their meaning. He blinks once, slowly. Reptilian in the motion. The rest of his champagne is downed in one swallow and he abandons his glass on the table behind them while the angel does the same to his flute. The demon smirks, matches the angel’s generous smile, and offers a hand that is neither clawed, nor scaly.

“Angel,” he purrs, “allow me to… _tempt_ you onto the dansssefloor.” His yellow eyes are bright and warm with affection taking the place of his previous defensive viciousness.

“My dear,” Aziraphale answers, putting his hand in Crowley’s, “I thought you’d never ask.”

They disappear into the crowd moving about the room, warm against each other and hands held tightly as they’re swallowed up into a waltz as, around them, the best and worst of humanity keeps dancing and the Earth spins on.


End file.
